The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

The fortunes of an English Tar
Various, as hap and hazard are;
Yet no varieties ever damp
His spirits, or his humour cramp:
Whatever was his former lot,
Put him on board, 'tis all forgot.
He there displays, in every part,
A thoughtless, guileless, dauntless, heart:

282

He's there all hero!—But, avast!
Methinks I shoot ahead too fast.
In fight, stick ever by the stuff!
But among friends, steer clear of puff!

“Put him on board,” I said—why true:—
For that's his proper point of view.

Suppose yourselves then in a Ship,
And me your Captain for this trip:—
A Ship well-mann'd, well-rigg'd, well-found;—
Her bottom clean; her timbers sound!—
Tight, tough tarpaulins, all her crew!
—Mayhap, you'd like to see a few.—
Suppose yourselves, this moment hearing
My orders for the gang's appearing;—
—“Below there!—Jackets! trowsers! checks!
—“Turn out, all hands! and man the decks!”

So please you, let us take the group,
Rang'd as they stand, from prow to poop.

283

The Boatswain first.—He, you must know,
Had once a vixen wife in tow:
But death, with a side-wind, d'ye see,
Drove her adrift; and set him free.
She left, however, an embargo
Of debts, so heavy on his cargo,
It made him from his moorings steer,
To weather storms, less boisterous, here.

Alongside him, the Mate you'll mark;
A merchant's maccaroni clerk:
Crank, gunwell to, before the gale
He sped; and crowded all his sail;
'Till at an un-paid taylor's call,
The lawyers conjur'd up a squall:—
—Had then those sharks, the bailiffs, met him,
Keel-upwards they had surely set him:
But fate procur'd him, in the fuss,
Safe sea-room and a birth with us.

284

A look, pray, for a moment cast
On yon long lubber, next the mast!
He'd conn'd your learned lingo pat,—
Your Hebrew-latin,—and all that:
But when, unskill'd to stem the tide,
The hurricane of life he tried,
And beat up, right in the wind's eye,
(No log-book of experience nigh,)
He lost his helm; his main-sail tore,
And run his vessel bump ashore;
Then hove out signals of distress,
Glad to make one in any mess.

Steady!—I'm veering out, I find,
More knots an hour, than I design'd:
Wherefore, 'tis time to fall aback;
And haul up, on a closer tack:—
While all the residue, first and last,
However station'd, mess'd, or class'd,

285

The busy, buzzing, bustling crowds,
Of midship, fore-castle, and shrouds,
Who cables coil, who tacklings sling,
Who reef, who splice, who climb, who swing;
All who command, and eke who swab in
Hold, gallery, quarter-deck, or cabin,
Starboard and larboard, more or less,
In one round-robin I compress;
Each frank and free, by each to stand;
Each prompt, with each to bear a hand;
Each prone, staunch prowess to exert,
Stem, stays, and stern, alive, alert;
Each patient, watch and ward to take;
Each faithful, one reserve to make:—
“Reserve?”—you'll say!—“pray what reserve?”
—Ev'n that,—from which they never swerve:—
For tho' they scorn to hoard and heap,
The votive grog they sacred keep,

286

To toast, when every week's-work ends,
King, Country, Sweethearts, Families, Friends!
While thus their generous maxims run,
To give to all—but yield to none!

Defended by such Sons, as these,
No wonder Britain awes the Seas:—
Danger, that makes the milk-sop droop,
But sets their courage cock-a-hoop;
Sinews their arms; expands their breasts:—
Then! for “Up hammocks and down chests!”
Then! for the Naval Empire's claim!
Then! for old England's Flag, and Fame!
Then! when her angry Thunders burst,
Perhaps—another June the first!